


What Can I Do For You?

by wishfulthinkment



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sex Shop, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulthinkment/pseuds/wishfulthinkment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt that crazybecat submitted to randommirandyfics on tumblr, like, a lifetime ago: an AU wherein Andy is a purveyor of adults goods and Miranda is trying to save her marriage.  Also posted on FFN (Writer-Monkey-Esq).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrazyBeCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyBeCat/gifts).



> A/N: this is my first mirandy fic and i'm praying that everyone is as much in-character as possible. it's based on the prompt that crazybecat submitted to randommirandyfics on tumblr, like, a lifetime ago: an AU wherein Andy is a purveyor of adults goods and Miranda is trying to save her marriage. 
> 
> i've probably taken a few liberties with the original prompt but i'm not particularly bothered by that. 
> 
> it's also turning out to be a little longer than expected. oh well.

Andrea Sachs didn’t own a sex shop.

Okay, _fine._

Yes, it was _technically_ a sex shop, in the sense that, yes, she did _technically_ sell sex toys, but she’d always believed that an establishment of a calibre as the one she operated was deserving of a much better title.

In much the same way, at parties, Andrea Sachs introduced herself as a therapist, which, while only technically true, was certainly truer than anything else. She did, indeed, do the work of a therapist, it was just that she helped her clients in one very particular aspect of their lives, and she helped them with that aspect only.

She kept the shop in three parts: a beige waiting room in front (replete with a faux-fern and a landscape painting in blues and greens), a private consultation room to the side, a private-private consultation room behind a hidden panel (no such thing as “too much privacy”), and inventory in the back.

It was all a part of the "sex-shop-that’s-not-a-sex-shop" image.

Andrea Sachs was the best at what she did. In the age of online shopping it was how she turned a profit.

She was a professional.

A _professional,_ goddammit.

“…What can I do for you?”

“It’s–” The elegant woman opened her mouth to speak before seeming to think better of it and closing it again. She frowned, clenching and unclenching her fist.

Not five minutes ago she’d swept through the glass doors with all the force of a hurricane and made a beeline for the consultation room, leaving Andy stammering in her wake. By the time she’d managed to persuade her to stop pacing and take a seat, she appeared to realise just exactly where she was, and that realisation had taken the wind clear out of her sails.

Andy smiled into her eyes, trying to disarm her. This kind of establishment obviously wasn’t her cup of tea. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”

The woman swallowed reflexively before blurting out “It’s my marriage.”

“There now, that wasn’t so hard.” Andy tilted her head to the side, trying to get a read on her customer. “Are you able to tell me what exactly the issue is?”

"I have… I experience difficulty in…" Her eyes closed tight, and a red tinge crawled up her cheekbones, her next words a whisper. "… _reaching_   _orgasm,_ " she took a shuddering breath, obviously pained, "Pretending has become tiresome and so, according to my husband, have I."

Andy’s heart clenched in sympathy – the poor woman was not merely feeling embarrassed. She was feeling humiliated.

“Sweetie,” Blue eyes blazed fire at the endearment, but Andy was not deterred. “There’s no need to be ashamed. Not here. This isn’t a place for judgement. I mean, really. You’re not the first woman to have experienced this kind of problem and you’ll not be the last, but let me tell you that it’s by no means because of a deficiency on your part. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Her words seemed to placate the woman’s nervous energy, but her gaze continued to skewer her, her eyes hard with scepticism.

“You really believe that.”

“Absolutely.”


	2. Chapter 2

_**Approximately One And A Half Weeks Later...** _

Andy had been doing stock-take in the back room, but she knew before the door closed just exactly who had stormed right through it.

Again.

She came out into the front room, smoothing the displeasure at being disrupted from her face.

The woman – Miranda – looked to be in a similar state as the last time she'd seen her: highly agitated.

"It didn't work."

"…I-I'm sorry?"

"I said… I said it didn't work."

"Listen, if the merchandise is faulty…"

"The merchandise isn't faulty." She averted her eyes, colour creeping into her cheeks "It's me – I didn't… I couldn't…"

Andy didn't need to re-school her features this time. Her sympathy was genuine, and it was only her professionalism that kept her from physically reaching out, as was her natural inclination.

"So... you froze up again?"

In the blink of an eye Miranda's agitation was transformed into a quiet fury. She planted the hand that had been toying with her necklace firmly on the counter, and leaned in – not far, just enough to lend her a subtle air of menace. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and it cut the air between them like a knife.

"Listen. I've had quite enough of Stephen insinuating that I'm frigid, I'd expected a great deal better from you."

Andy blinked at the change in her demeanour. Alluding to ice had apparently been a mistake.

"No, Miranda – that's not what I meant. That's the last word I would use to describe you."

She leaned back, not quite satisfied and thinned her lips, an unreadable expression on her face, and Andy forced herself to not squirm beneath her steady gaze.

"…And just how would you describe me?"

Andy flicked her eyes down to her watch and sighed internally. Miranda didn't have an appointment, but she _was_ only about five minutes from closing.

"If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment, we can continue this conversation."

* * *

Andy cursed the day that she'd decided that a coffee machine was an inappropriate fixture for the workplace. She'd had a run of late nights working on a novel and she'd hoped to have been crashed on her couch by now. It was hard to be professional when she was so exhausted, and Miranda's perfume was making her head swim pleasantly. The woman had a presence that filled up a room and in college Andy would not have been disinclined to day-dream about giving her a personal tour of the inventory room.

But she was a professional now.

Resisting the urge to tap her pen on her notepad, she opted instead to cross her legs and lean forward slightly, making a small show of directing her attention to Miranda.

_She was a goddamned, motherfucking professional._

"So… how would you describe your sex life?"

"Really, Andrea?" she drawled.

Andy inclined her head in an acknowledgement of her hesitance that she hoped seemed reassuring."Yes. Really. I am the soul of discretion."

Miranda's eyes retained a sceptical gleam, but answered the question regardless. "It's, well… it's… uninspired."

Andy kept her eyebrow from arching. _Wow. So specific._ "Okay, uh… do the two of you engage in foreplay?"

"Occasionally."

"Huh." Andy's memory was exceptional, but she still made of point of scratching out some notes. "…Oral sex?"

"I find it… undignifying."

Andy looked up from her notes and locked eyes with the woman, her expression one of careful concern, and lowered the pitch of her voice as she clarified her question. "I meant, on you." Colour bloomed high on Miranda's cheekbones. "So, have you two… never?"

"He doesn't enjoy the… odour."

"Okay. Does he use his hands?"

Miranda sighed deeply, "To what end, exactly?"

"To, uh… directly stimulate your clitoris." Silence. "…I'll take that as a 'no'."

"'No', indeed."

"Is there stimulation of any other erogenous zones? ...'No' again?" Her silence was telling.

Andy looked down at her scant notes and wanted to cry of frustration. The picture they painted was positively primitive. This was ridiculous.

Miranda's eyebrow arched in an expression of '…So?'

"Well, it's, uh… it's no wonder you've been having difficulty reaching orgasm during intercourse. To call that 'uninspired' is the very definition of understatement."

"And… so, you don't think that I'm the one… who…?"

"No. Fuck No." Andy buried her face in her hands and groaned in frustration. _Fuck professionalism_ , she decided. _Fuck it all to hell._ "…Permission to speak freely?"

"Permission granted."

This time, when she met her gaze, her expression was uncensored. Andy didn't know what it looked like, exactly, but it felt like anger and disbelief.

"I know… I know you're trying to save your marriage, but honestly? Miranda, you married an idiot."

Andy kept the _"and he doesn't deserve you"_ to herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...because what would a mirandy fic be without them bumping into each other at a fancy-ass shin-dig?

Her makeup was flawless, her up-do impeccable, her dress divine, with heels that were killer in more sense than one.

While she was nobody special herself, her friend Doug loved to take her as his Plus One to all sorts of fancy shin-digs. Well, technically what he loved was playing “Guess the Client”. He’d take her around and introduce her to big names and see if anyone of them would squirm upon seeing her. Andy’s poker face had netted her a fortune at the poker table in college, and her clients were much the same. She’d tell him that one day, but until then she enjoyed the opportunity to get dressed up.

The champagne flute in her hand was not her first of the evening and that was obviously the only reason for the warmth she felt when Doug waltzed her up to Miranda and her husband. She mentally scowled at the man whilst her friend made the introductions, a dark little thunder storm gathering behind her pleasant smile.

“Our Andy’s a therapist.” At the mention of her name, she snapped back into the conversation.

“Oh,” Miranda couldn’t have sounded more disinterested if she’d tried. “How fascinating.”

“And, uh…” Andy hated his face, hated the way he spoke. “What field do you specialise in?”

“Largely? Marital,” she replied. It was a standard answer. “I’ve assisted many couples in my years of practice.”

“Couples, huh?” God, she even hated the way he _breathed._ “Maybe you should give ‘Randa here your card, you could help sort her out.”

“Of course, my card.” She reached for her clutch to retrieve said card and silently counted the different ways she knew to kill a man. “Have a pleasant evening. Miranda. Stephen.”

And then Doug waltzed her away again.

* * *

Andy had a flute of champagne in each hand when she finally located the other woman. After her date had wandered off to go flirt with some guy he’d just met she’d been subtly (and then, not-so-subtly) trying to find her. To what end she wasn’t quite sure, they had only spoken twice before, but Andy had a sneaking suspicion that Miranda had revealed more of herself in those two conversations than she had revealed to anyone, possibly ever. The scene that had taken place before, while seemingly innocuous to anyone else, was far more serious and embarrassing to Miranda than that. Andy just wanted to see that she was okay, that was all.

She stepped out through the French doors and stopped short at the sight of the other woman: shoulders square, hands braced against the balustrade, head hung low.

“‘Randa’?” she asked, her inflection light. 

The sigh she heard in response was a heavy one. “If I had wanted people to call me ‘Randa’,” she said, “that’s what I would’ve changed my name to.”

Andy drew closer, until they were standing nearly elbow-to-elbow on the balcony. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not the one that married him.”

“Nevertheless.” She offered the champagne to her. “…Here.”

“Thankyou.”

“I’ve told you that he’s an ass, right?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” She laughed, a harsh, bitter sounding thing, and stared down into her drink. “Where on earth were you five years ago?”

“College? I believe?”

“God. What a way to remind me of my age.”

“Nonsense. You’re only ever as old as you feel.”

“Exactly. Standing next to you I feel like I’m a hundred years old.”

Silence fell between them and Andy realised she was staring at the way the silver light of the moon made Miranda’s skin look like alabaster and so she drained the rest of her flute to keep herself from blurting out any number of inappropriate things. Things like, “given a chance, I could make you feel young again” or “you look so fucking beautiful in the moonlight” or the ever popular “I want to wrap your legs around my head.”

God, she really needed to take it easier with the champagne.

“Though you never did tell me.”

“Tell you what?” she glanced up to see that Miranda had turned to face her, her eyes studying her face. Andy turned as well and, as though magnetised, drew a little closer. She saw Miranda’s pupils dilate, heard her breath catch in her throat.

“…What word you would use to describe me.”

“Well,” Andy mulled over her response, “Most people see a scheme of white and blue and think ‘ice’. On you, I see white and blue, and think ‘fire’. A blue flame doesn’t burn high, it burns hot.”

There had been hardly a sliver of daylight between them as it was, but then Miranda swayed forward slightly, her head coming to rest against Andy’s collar-bone. It was not quite an embrace, just the light press of a beautiful woman’s body against her own, but Andy felt about ready to burst into flames. She rested her hand lightly at Miranda’s waist, hardly believing that this was happening to her. She turned her head and pressed her cheek to her temple.

Surely, she reasoned, that the faint whimper she heard was all her imagination.


	4. Chapter 4

It was two in the morning the next time she saw her.

Andy hadn’t been having a particularly deep sleep when she heard the knocking on her door, characters from her novel dancing through her head. She stumbled to the door, pulling on a robe, vaguely cognitive of the fact that she wasn’t expecting anyone and that two in the morning was a ridiculous time to receive an unexpected visitor. Andy looked through the spy hole, more out of muscle memory than anything else, and was a little stunned to see a certain white-haired woman standing on the other side. She slid the chain across, turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

They stood there for a second, on opposite sides of the threshold, before Andy realised that Miranda had been crying and she felt the realisation like a punch to the stomach.

She ushered the other woman inside, closing the door behind her and taking her coat to hang it up. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that she’d never actually given the other woman her home address, but in the early hours of the morning, with a tearful Miranda standing in her apartment, it didn’t seem like a particularly important thought.

Andy went to her liquor stash and pulled out a bottle of something warming and poured a finger or two for each of them. She pushed a glass across the counter and Miranda gripped it tightly, staring into the amber liquid, the silence between them heavy, broken finally by a low whisper.

“I was served divorced papers at the office today.”

The hand that Andy had curled around the edge of the countertop tightened, knuckles turning white, as she strove to restrain her outrage on Miranda’s behalf.

_That bastard._

She took a deep breath and centred herself, moving to cover the hands that were wrapped around the glass. Her thumbs stroked across the delicate skin, slowly easing Miranda’s grip until she was able to hold onto Andy’s hands instead. Andy watched Miranda stare at their joined hands, she studied the expression on her face, the emotions that played behind her eyes.

“I actually tried,” she said at last, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, and Andy gently squeezed her hands. “I did. I still wasn’t enough.”

There were many things in this world that Andy could stand, but that defeated tone in Miranda’s voice was not one of them. She rounded the end of the counter and took the other woman in her arms. She smelled of top-shelf whisky and expensive perfume.

Still firmly locked into whatever space her head had been in, Miranda whispered softly into her neck, “It’s just… he doesn’t… why doesn’t he want me?”

‘Because he’s a fucking asshole!’ is what Andy didn’t say, though she thought it very loudly.

“I really don’t know,” is what she said instead and the _“because he’s missing out”_ quietly slipped past her lips before she could help herself.  Miranda pulled her head back from Andy’s shoulder and planted a hand on her chest, just over her heart.

“You really believe that.” The words were framed as a statement, but Andy could see the question mark, the disbelief written all over Miranda’s face.

She met her gaze without flinching, her next words serious as a vow. “I do.”

Andy’s heart skipped a beat at the look in Miranda’s eyes as they dropped to stare at her mouth. Miranda released the lip that had been caught between her teeth and slowly leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. Andy could smell the alcohol on her breath and her better sense kicked in, turning her head slightly so that Miranda’s kiss graced her cheek.

“No, Miranda... No.” she whispered, her hands sliding to rest at her elbows as she gently pulled away.

Miranda stiffened and refused to meet her gaze. “Do you not want me?” she asked, her voice incredibly small and rough with unshed tears.  Andy's soft smile belied the pain in her chest and she held Miranda’s hand against her heart before she could think to move it away.

“Sweetheart,” Andy breathed, and shining blue eyes blinked up at her in response. “You’re tired, upset, and not a little intoxicated.” She gently cupped her face in her hand, traced her cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, “Just… let me look after you, okay?”

The other woman nodded, her features screwed up into a fragile smile that was distorted by the effort it took not to resume crying. Andy drew her back into her arms and she nestled into her chest. Miranda’s breathing shuddered beneath the weight of the hand rubbing soothing patterns on her back. Unused to such tenderness, she gripped handfuls of flannel and held on tight.

* * *

It was three in the morning by the time Andy fell back into bed again.  She’d rehydrated Miranda, removed her makeup and helped her into her nicest pair of pyjamas. That last part had taken an awful lot of self-control, between the sight and the scent of the woman, but she had managed.

As she had slipped between the sheets, some small voice in the back of her head had reasoned that it would be a good idea to sleep on the couch, but she ignored it. She was tired and the couch had a bad spring and she was weak.

Andy had lain down carefully, not wanting to disturb Miranda or encroach on her space.

She looked down at the head that now lay on her chest and the arm and the leg that had been flung across her body. It seemed that an intoxicated, slumbering Miranda was also a snuggly Miranda.

And Andy was weak, she was weak, she was _so, so incredibly weak._

Because her arms were wrapped around Miranda as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: in honour of having written my way up to a very vital juncture in the plot today, i've decided to publish this little bit tonight

 

She was gone by the morning, and the shit-storm hit the papers the following week.

Andy first caught wind of it as she was walking past a newspaper stand, something about the Snow Queen catching her attention from out of the corner of her eye. She double back on herself, picked up the paper, winced, and put it back down again.

It was ugly.

Apparently divorce was not to be the final humiliation for Miranda.

She avoided the papers after that, avoided most kinds of media, actually. If the woman was going to be stripped bare for all the world to see by her bastard of an ex-husband, the least Andy could do was avert her eyes. In reality she knew it changed nothing, but she felt like she was preserving some fragment of Miranda's dignity, so she did it anyway.

It wasn't her business to know, so she didn't want to know.

Unfortunately, the whole thing came knocking at her door, regardless.

She'd never been mobbed by reporters before and she never wanted to be mobbed by them again. From what snippets of questions she caught as she made her way from the taxi to the entrance of her building, someone had made a vital connection.

_'…Is it true she's frigid?'_

_'…Is that why he left her?'_

Andy closed the door of her apartment behind her and collapsed against it, her whole body feeling cold. Someone knew… someone had figured her out, and her anonymity – the anonymity that was absolutely vital to her work – had been shot to pieces. Her clients came to her because she was a nobody that knew how to keep her mouth shut. She'd have to change her name and leave the country if she ever wanted to work again.

_And Miranda…_

She closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears as she fished her phone out of her pocket.

There was one notification – one single, solitary notification.

It was a missed call that had gone to voice mail.

Her hand shook as she raised the device to her ear. At first she couldn't hear anything other than the tone of Miranda's voice – the ice, the hurt, the disappointment – so she had to play the message over and forced herself to listen to the words.

_'Andrea… you said once that you were the soul of discretion. I didn't think I would have to remind you of that. Any further reminders will come from my lawyers._

_That's…'_  and here, her voice broke _'...that's all.'_

She didn't think it was possible to hurt so much without dying.

Miranda thought she had betrayed her.

It probably wasn't extraordinarily prudent for her to return the call, not in the state she was in, but she did it anyway. Andy didn't even realise that she'd hit the button until she heard it ringing.

And it rang.

Once, twice, three times, it rang.

And then the call was declined and she was faced with an answering machine.

She heard the beep and choked a message out through her tears. Later, she wouldn't be able to recall her exact words, only the thoughts that were running through her head, cranked to eleven.

_It wasn't me._

_I swear it._

_Miranda._

_Please._

Andrea Sachs didn't sleep a wink that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: so, since i'm off to sydney for the weekend (and i don't know how much internet i'll have) there may not be any updates till i'm back. since i'm not mean enough to leave you hanging with that last chapter till then, i'll leave you with this little tid-bit.

After that there was nothing left to do than to try and return to normal life.

Business had slowed, because of course it had, her clients were a skittish bunch. Her novel was at a standstill, her parents had stopped calling after she'd stopped picking up and, when sleep was not elusive, every single dream was filled with Miranda.

Which was why, after stumbling into her office a whole half-hour late, un-caffeinated and barely functioning, she had to pinch herself to make sure she was actually awake and not still drooling face-first into her mattress.

_Ouch._

She was very much awake, and Miranda was very much sitting in the chair in front of her.

Andy took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping forward.

Normal.  She had been so very close to 'normal', she'd nearly been able to taste it.

And now Miranda was back and, in an instant, 'normal' had fucked right the hell off once more.

"So…" she said, her heart so very tired, "What can I do for you?"

Blue eyes stared right past her.

"You can help me." Miranda replied. Her voice sounded oddly husky, and if Andy had been anyone else she would have missed the tone of apology in her voice, subtle as it was. Unfortunately, it seemed that her heart was a damned fool and so she crossed the space between them and knelt in front of her, reaching up to clasp Miranda's hands within her own.

"How? Miranda…" she whispered, searching the other woman's face, though she would not meet her gaze. "How do I help you?"

Miranda occupied her attention with their hands, distracting herself whilst she forced out her words. "At first, I wanted… I wanted to be able to…" she cleared her throat, "for the sake of my marriage. But now… Andrea," Miranda's voice became stronger and she became present all at once, looking Andy square in the eye, "For  _me_. I want it for me. I want to have myself back. Do you understand?"

She did, she really, really did.

The woman seated before her had come to her in order to save her marriage, but Andy supposed that perhaps the thing she'd really wanted to preserve was her dignity – to prove to herself that she was enough: neither deficient in any regard, nor too much to handle.

Andy couldn't begrudge her that. She remembered the feeling well enough from when her relationship with Nate had fallen down around her ears. She'd learned that there wasn't anything wrong with her. She'd learned that she was gay, and she'd learned that that was good. She'd learned to love herself.

Andy turned Miranda's hand over in her grasp and gently brushed her thumb over the delicate blue veins in her delicate pale wrist. The small movement seemed to captivate the both of them. When she gently pressed her fingers against her pulse point, she could feel that her heart was beating fiercely.

"Yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: i love you all, and thank you so much for your comments and feedback! i'll see you on monday!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: i'm back!

 

Andy had cancelled the rest of her day, because why the fuck not, there wasn't anything in her schedule that couldn't wait, at least not when Miranda was right there, sitting in front of her.

She had then decided to let Miranda take the lead in setting up their… arrangement. This was, after all, for her pleasure. And that was how she'd found herself sitting in the back of a town car working its way through Manhattan traffic. Miranda stared out the window, having assumed an air of indifference that was belied by the way her fingers were tangled with Andy's.

"Relax."

"I'm fine."

And Andy would have believed her, were it not the death grip she was currently exercising on her fingers. So she stared out of her own window, her own assumed air of boredom belied by the way her thumb was caressing Miranda's knuckles.

When the car pulled to a stop in front of what Andy could only assume was Miranda's home, her hand was released and she followed Miranda up to the rear entrance of the townhouse. The den that they finally settled in was more functional than plush, but still rather warm and a damn sight nicer than anything Andy would ever be able to afford.

A bottle of wine was cracked open and two glasses poured.

Miranda stepped out of her heels, tucked her feet up beneath her on the sofa and gazed up Andy.

Andy, still not entirely sure she wasn't dreaming, decided that she might as well follow suit and sat herself at the opposite end, put her feet up on the hassock and toed off her shoes, letting them clatter to the floor.

The first glass, she drank in relative quiet. Miranda's silence was a little tense, but Andy resolved herself to ignore the nervous energy radiating from the other end of the sofa and simply enjoy the fragrant notes of the incredibly expensive red.

The second glass found Andy becoming slightly warmed, the alcohol settling itself into her system.

"So, Miranda—" "Andrea—" they began at the same time.

Andy smiled fondly into her wine and glanced across at the other woman, who was still nursing an almost-full glass and staring pensively into its depths. She put down her own (practically empty) glass and shifted in her seat. Perhaps it was the last half a glass perhaps getting the better of her, but something needed to be done or else nothing was going to be going anywhere anytime soon.

"Give me your feet."

Miranda snapped up to look at her, "I beg your pardon?"

"You need to relax, Miranda, and obviously the wine isn't helping. So, give me your feet." It took a moment, but she did relent, and placed them in Andy's lap. Andy glanced up at her, trying to gauge her emotional state – the wine had probably made things worse, if anything – and then put her hands to work.

She pressed her thumbs into the high arches and watched as Miranda buried her face within the crook of her elbow.

She pressed a little harder and watched the colour rise in Miranda's cheeks, watched her bite down on her lower lip.

She worked her hands around to her ankle, "You can let it out, you know."

Once Miranda released that low moan into the air there was no taking it back – and,  _holy fuck, that moan_  – but it was not the only thing that she decided to let out.

"Wine and sex don't mix for me." Miranda said, suddenly. "Not anymore, at least," and the sadness in her voice might as well have been a cold shower.

"How's that?"

"Anniversary sex," was all she said at first, and then she sighed deeply and continued. "It was quite awful. Being plied with wine and then coaxed to bed. He'd hoped it would make me more…  _agreeable_. Thought perhaps I'd enjoy myself more. Felt he deserved as much at least once a year."

Andy gently squeezed her foot gently in an acknowledgement of what she'd shared and silently counted backwards from thirty to allow time for her rage to subside.

"I'm so sorry."

"Yes, well… It's over now."

"Regardless."

Miranda shifted her arm slightly and peered down at her, a small smile gracing her lips, her eyes speaking a certain measure of thanks in Andy's direction. Andy glanced down, feeling oddly shy, and squeezed the foot she held in acknowledgement. She rather disliked feeling shy, it was almost like a flashback to an awkward childhood, and this was a conversation that needed to happen; a conversation that, while aided by gentleness, would be prohibited by bashfulness.

"So," Andy started again, "Do you have any good memories, sexually speaking?"

"Some good, none outstanding, nothing really worth repeating." She settled her face back into the crook of her elbow, "I'm not ordinarily one to tolerate incompetence, but it's just… so much easier to fire an employee than to separate from one's partner. Besides which, an employee's incompetence encompasses a far smaller portion of my week than an incompetent lover. At the time it all just seemed to be too much effort for too little reward." She sighed deeply and flexed her ankle as Andy's fingers crept up and started to work on her tight calf muscles. " _My_ ," she drawled, "you are good at that. I've half a mind to fire my masseuse, keep you on a retainer."

Not that Andy would have said no, but she was doing a different job right there, right then. She could feel the tension slowly leaving Miranda's body, and she noted how that, the further she relaxed, the freer she became with her words. She had no real way of knowing the stresses that pulled at Miranda, and she didn't doubt that they were considerable. Likewise, she had no real way of knowing if Miranda had people in her life that she could be relaxed with, that she could confide in, but that… that was something she did doubt.

"Do you ever masturbate?"

The colour crept back into Miranda's cheeks, "I, well… I can't say that here have been many periods in my life where I've had both the time and the inclination, so… no, not really."

"Okay," Andy grinned and switched feet, "but let's just say… hypothetically, if you  _were_  to masturbate, is there a particular fantasy to which you would be inclined to focus on?"

Miranda grimaced. "...Must I answer that?"

"This is your house." Andy said softly, "You don't need to do anything you don't want to."

The other woman was quiet for a very long moment and she grew very still. She seemed to be holding her breath, bracing herself for something, mustering up the courage to put her thoughts into words.

"I've never wanted a woman before," she breathed, so quietly that Andy had to lean in to hear her. "I mean… I've been attracted to them in passing, of course I have. But I've never  _wanted_ … not like... well,  _never_  like this." She sighed a little laugh, her voice growing a touch stronger. "But then, I suppose I've never wanted to be taken pressed up against a balustrade before, either."

Andy blinked.

_Wow._

She remembered that night at the party as well as anyone, champagne hangover be damned. Standing in the moonlight, side-by-side on the balcony, leaning against the… well, she doubted she'd ever be able to think the word 'balustrade' again without blushing like a schoolgirl, so she wasn't going to think it just now.

No sir.

It wasn't until Miranda peered up at her once more that Andy realised that her hands had stopped.

"Do you think that's the issue, Andrea? That I'm attracted to women?"

"In all likelihood, it's probably a combination of a number of different things. The only person who knows for sure what those things are, is you. I'm mainly just here to ask the right questions, set you on the right track."

"And what else, Andrea? What else might you be here for?"

"I told you. I'm here to help."

Her eyes narrowed, "How?"

Andy smiled at her, giving her a little hit of the ol' 'seduction eyes'.

"In whatever way I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hope you all enjoyed that :) the next chapter is already half-written, but i'm not sure when it'll be up...
> 
> also, like, carmilla reference


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